Bastille My Heart
by Elle Wednesday
Summary: Two and a half-years, and he's still there in every nightmare. Every rust-colored, screaming-soundtrack-ed, apple-pie-and-cinnamon-and-vomit-scented nightmare. BBxT oneshot 2009.


Bastille My Heart

_When there are so many people paying so much attention to you and wanting so much from you, it can make you feel very isolated and lonely. You're constantly wondering '"Is this person using me" and "How do people see me?"_- Kirsten Dunst, on Marie Antoinette

There is a French pastry shop on Laurel Avenue, and that is where I'm headed. My twelve-year old sister, Jessica, is obsessed with anything French and, in honor of Bastille Day, we are watching _Marie Antoinette_. Again. It was good the first two times, but the following four have given me pastel-colored, classical-music-soundtrack-ed, cupcake-scented nightmares. I don't need to this movie a seventh time. I really don't.

It's a dark, quiet sort of night. Everything feels still. I hate nights like this. Way too easy to get stuck inside my head, forget where I am. I try to focus on something else, anything else, the twinkling stars, white-gold on the deep navy sky. They make me think too much of camping, of dirt. I can almost feel the stinging of cold, sharp, jagged rock digging into my bare feet.

I look down. I'm wearing shoes. Light-blue converse sneakers. Thick, rubber soles. I can't feel the earth beneath them.

A bell jingles as I swing open the door to the pastry shop. It's a pretty store; small with pale pink walls and a tiled floor, old-fashioned-looking glass tables and white metal-chairs, the kind decorated with curly wire hearts, with pale pink cushions on the seats. There are big bay windows and posters of French landmarks: The Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Élysée Palace. I can smell something warm and richly sweet. Must be pain au chocolat, or whatever Jessica says chocolate croissants are really called. Classical music fills the room, playing softly from a little antique radio on a windowsill. There's a little white upright piano in the corner, but nobody's playing it. I wonder if this is what it's really like in Paris.

The place is almost empty. I don't even know why its open so late, almost ten, I guess because its a French holiday or whatever. There's only two people ahead of me in line. I'm glad. The last thing I want to do is stand around on such a humid, heavy-feeling night. I'm pretty sure this place isn't air conditioned. The sticky summer air seems to weight down on my shoulders. I wouldn't be here at all, I'd be back home, where there's air conditioning and fans. I really should be at home, I'm supposed to be babysitting. But Jessica's not allowed out without Mom or Dad after nine, and she begged me to come here for éclairs and madeleines and mille-feuille. I probably shouldn't have come, but Jess said she could watch Matthew and Adam and Jordan, and it's only for a few minutes, and, well, what can I say, I'm just a sucker for that puppy dog face.

I hate this kind of heat. I almost feel like I'm sunburnt, I could almost swear the skin on my face is red and peeling and coated in dirt.

I hear the soft tinkling of the bell and feel a gust of hot, sweaty wind. Someone rushes into the shop and runs right into me. I have to grab onto a chair to keep myself from toppling over.

"Ow!" I exclaim. "Watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," the person murmurs. "I didn't mean to, I just didn't see you there." I'd know that voice anywhere. Shit. Why does it have to be...

His eyes lock with mine.

Him.

Shit.

I shouldn't really be this surprised. I mean, we live in the same city, of course we're going to run into each other sometimes. And he's a celebrity too, so of course I'm going to see his face on magazine covers and hear his voice on the news. Hell, Adam idolizes him, has his face plastered on practically every surface of his room.

But this is the first time I've seen him in person since that day two and a half years. I don't want to deal with this. Not again.

I try to look away but I can't. I just can't. He's got me mesmerized or something, with those clear, sparkling green eyes. God, he's gorgeous. Why is he so gorgeous? Why does he have to be so gorgeous? My life would be so much easier if he wasn't so goddamn gorgeous.

He stares at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "Hey," he says.

"Hey," I say back. Two and a half-years. It has been two and a half-years since I last saw him.

Two and a half years without him.

I start to turn around. Maybe I can get Jessica's pastries and just bolt. Maybe he won't talk to me. Maybe I won't have to hear his voice. It hurts too much to hear his voice.

"Wait!" he exclaims. I let out a short breath, and turn to face him again.

"What?" I snap.

"Just..." he begins, shuffling his feet. I've noticed he always does that when he's nervous. Even on TV. "Just... You know, how... How are you?"

"Fine," I answer. Keep it short. Simple. I don't want to talk to him.

"Oh," he says, offering up a weak smile. "That's good. How's... How's school?"

"Good," I reply. "I'll be a senior this fall."

"Yeah," he says. He seems wistful. That shouldn't surprise me. "So, uh, what... What brings you here?"

"Picking up some stuff for my sister Jessica," I explain. "Adoptive sister," I add, but I don't know why. "She's obsessed with France, and it's Bastille Day, which means she wants pastries."

"Starfire too," he says. "She's making us all watch _Marie Antoinette_."

"No kidding. Jess is too" I say. I feel myself smile. Stupid. Don't smile. Don't let yourself smile.

He grins. Adam has a picture of that grin tacked up on his doorway but it's different in person. Brighter. Scarier.

"Okay, well, nice talking to you," I say quickly, turning away.

"No, wait!" he calls out again. I whirl around.

"What?" I cry.

"Just..."

"Just nothing, okay?" I interject. "Just leave me alone! I thought we'd been through this." I start to turn around again. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window glass and I stop. I freeze. I always do, when I catch sight of myself like that. Too-blue eyes, too-blonde hair, too-pale skin. Too heavy. I look like a monster.

He reaches a hand out, like he might touch me, comfort me, tell me it's okay. I imagine myself, grasping onto his chest for my life as everything swirls around me, heavy, dirty, scary, tears in my eyes and he wipes them away. I imagine myself kissing him, imagine his soft, gentle lips against mine, his warm hands on my face, in my hair, as he kisses back. He's so good to me, in my fantasies. Why is he so good to me? I don't deserve it.

I swipe his hand away. "Don't," I choke out. "Don't touch me."

He nods, pulls his hand away, shoves it into the pocket of his big red hoodie. He looks at me, so desperate, so sad. I'm breaking his heart again. I'm good at that. I wonder if I do it when I'm not even trying. I wonder if I do it every second of every day, if I haunt his thoughts, his dreams, his nightmares the way he haunts mine. Two and a half-years, and he's still there in every nightmare. Every rust-colored, screaming-soundtrack-ed, apple-pie-and-cinnamon-and-vomit-scented nightmare.

"I just..." he says slowly. I don't want him to talk to me. I don't want to hear his voice. I wish there was a way I could stop listening. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

I don't talk to him. I get to the front of the line, order Jessica's pastries, take the plastic take-out bag in my hand. I try to leave but my feet won't move. I just want to look at him. Why do I have to want to look at him so bad?

"Sorry for what?" I say, quietly. I can barely hear my voice over the twinkling piano and sweeping violins playing on the radio. I don't know why I'm even responding to him. Why I can't just leave.

"Sorry for... For trying to force you to..." he mumbles. He shuffles his feet again, staring down at them. He has converse sneakers on. Red, and shiny like they're brand new. Mine are worn-out, muddy and there's a rip on the side.

"I should go," I say quickly, headed for the door. I shut my eyes, so I don't have to look at his face and so I don't have to see mine in the window.

"Look, I get it, okay?" he calls after me. "You're not her. You're just..."

I throw the door open, and the bell clangs loudly. He doesn't get it. He'll never get it. I force the tears back and rush down the sidewalk, my footsteps hard and heavy against the pavement.

I'll be its pretty nice in Paris right now. The City of Lights, all festive and bright, everything just exploding with light and happiness and love. But there aren't any fireworks in Jump City tonight.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Kirsten, you're back!" Jordan shrieks as I walk through the door. She races to me and flings herself around my leg. I hoist her into my arms and she clutches my neck like she won't ever let go.

"Hey, kiddo," I say. I toss the bag of pastries and Jess, who's sitting on the couch, her movie still going on the plasma-screen TV. "Here's your crud."

Jessica sticks her tongue out at me, then empties the bag out on the table. "Hey, I wanted chocolate madeleines!" she exclaims.

"So get 'em yourself next time," I tease, ruffling her hair with my free hand. I set Jordan down on the couch and sit down between them, forcing a big smile.

"Where are Matt and Adam?" I ask.

Jess shrugs. "I dunno, their room?" she asks, biting into an eclair.

"I though you said you were going to watch them," I tell her.

"I was!" she snipes, her mouth full of pastry crumbs. Then she adds quietly, "And then they went to their room and I stopped watching them."

I smile at her. "I'm sure they're fine," I reassure her.

Jordan holds up a piece of paper with a sad-looking scribble of a girl in pastel-tinted crayons. "Kirsten, look what I did!" she exclaims proudly. I'm sure she labored over it for ages, hoping I'd like it. She's four.

"It's beautiful, Jordy," I tell her. "Who is it?" I ask.

"It's Starfire!" she exclaims. "She's a princess!" Jordan loves princesses. All princesses.

I nod, as best as I can, but I feel dizzy. Maybe I just haven't eaten enough. "Well, it looks just like her," I say. My throat feels dry.

I stare up at the plasma screen. It's the closet scene, pop-music playing in the background as Marie Antoinette is surrounded by a whirlwind of candy-colored dresses and shoes and accessories and desserts.

I notice something. A pair of light-blue converse sneakers, on the floor with all of her high-heels and eighteenth-century whatever. "Hey, Jess, what's with the high-tops?" I ask.

"Oh, those?" Jessica replies, chewing on a madeleine. Jordan reaches across the couch for one, and Jess hands it to her. "Sofia Coppola put those there on purpose, to show that Antoine is just a normal girl."

I stare down at my shoes, pale-blue and coated in dirt. I think there's a rock in one of them.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, I dream in the balcony scene. The storming of Versailles.

It's rust -colored, screaming-soundtrack-ed, vomit-scented, and I feel myself collapse under the weight of my own weaknesses, stared at by the angry, heart-broken faces of everyone I've ever let down.

I see his face the clearest.

* * *

Author's Notes:

This is annual my Beast Boy and Terra one-shot for 2009. I came up with the France theme because I was tyring to remember what date I do these stories, and I accidentally thought it was July 14, which is Bastille Day. Then I remembered it was the tenth, but I didn't have any other ideas, so I wrote this anyway. And I'm currently travelling in France, so it kind of fits.

I didn't want to mention either Beast Boy or Terra by name in this story, but in case it's unclear, "he" is Beast Boy, and Kirsten is the _Things Change_ girl. I think she's Terra, but there isn't really a definitive answer to that question. I didn't want this story to give one. Overall, I was going for a feeling sort of like the movie _Marie Antionette_. I wanted the story to seem really, really pretty, but have kind of a miserable ending. Somehow, this story doesn't really seem done to me, I wonder if it needs to be longer. The title "Bastille My Heart" comes from the name of a nail-polish color. It's kind of a bad pun, but I thought it fit.

Happy Bastille Day.


End file.
